Breathe
by iridescentglow
Summary: "Would you say something if I kissed you?" Connor asked. (One-shot.)


_**Note:**__ Post-ep for #2.04 (Say Something) and id-fic speculation for the next episode._

* * *

"Would you say something if I dumped out the fish tank?" Connor asked.

Jude said nothing.

"Would you say something if I… set off a bunch of firecrackers?" Connor asked, his frustration growing.

Jude said nothing.

"Would you say something if I held my breath and didn't breathe at all until you said something—? If I passed out right here, would you say something then…?"

Jude said nothing.

Connor paced Jude's bedroom – back and forth, back and forth, across the small space – and tried to think of more hypotheticals that might force his best friend to speak. Jude, meanwhile, remained seated on his bed, one leg tucked up underneath him. He was completely still but for the movement of his eyes. His eyes followed Connor – as he went back and forth, back and forth, across the small space – but he looked neither anguished nor annoyed. In fact, his face remained completely impassive. Just… watching.

It was the _watching_ that freaked Connor out.

Jude had always had a calm energy about him. It was one of his best qualities, Connor had often thought. This veneer of calmness made him seem utterly unshockable. Even from their first few days of friendship, Connor had felt like he could tell Jude anything – literally anything – and Jude would take it in his stride. A shrug, a smile, and move on.

Now, newly silent, Jude was still calm. Still very calm, but… eerily so. This was a cold kind of calm, as contrasted with his usual warmth. Jude's veneer had grown thick, hard as plastic and difficult to break through.

Connor had a hazy idea of the official word on Jude's non-talking. Principal Adams Foster ("you can call me Lena when we're outside of school, Connor") had explained it to him. A delayed reaction to trauma. Anxiety. Something like that. It wasn't his fault. It wasn't his choice. His moms were sending him to a therapist; he was going to get help and feel better.

Except…

Except, Connor sensed a challenge in Jude's silence.

It reminded him of a kid in his third grade class, who used to hold his breath for two, three minutes at a stretch. He did it just to prove he could. To prove his toughness. To give the impression that he was superhuman – and maybe he didn't need to breathe at all.

(And, yeah, okay, that kid was him, Connor.)

Connor couldn't shake the feeling that Jude was trying to _prove_ something with his silence.

Just as suddenly as he'd begun pacing, Connor stopped. He turned to look at Jude. He wondered if he should leave. When he'd arrived at the house, he'd almost expected Principal Adams Foster ("call me Lena") to tell him to go home. "Go on up," she'd said instead, and then, sensing Connor's hesitation, she'd added, "if he doesn't want you there, he'll let you know."

Slowly, Connor moved to where Jude sat on the bed. He hesitated and then he sat down beside him.

"You know some people think it's possible to hold your breath for fifteen, twenty minutes?" Connor asked conversationally. "Divers can hold their breath for five minutes, no problem. Five minutes is, like, a pussy length of time for divers. I can hold my breath for three minutes and twenty seven seconds. Last time I timed it, anyway." He exhaled deeply. "Hurts like hell."

Jude said nothing.

"Like, seriously," Connor said, his voice dropping lower, "how long do you think you can stay silent for? A week? A month? A _year_? Is there, like, a world record for staying silent? Do people _compete_ at it? Is it… _painful_?"

Jude said nothing.

Not getting a response from Jude in words meant that Connor was forced to look at him closely to try and find a reaction.

_If he doesn't want you there, he'll let you know._

Connor leaned forward unconsciously, scouring Jude's face for clues.

Jude's silence made his eyes seem bigger to Connor. Jude's entire vocabulary had been replaced by those eyes and Connor couldn't seem to look away.

Eyes. Eyes that watched. Eyes so dark brown that they almost looked black. Eyes where iris and pupil combined like metals swirling together in liquid form.

The silence made Connor notice things about Jude's face that he never had before. The arch of his eyebrows. The snub of his nose. The black clump of lashes that framed his liquid-metal eyes. His chapped lips, bottom lip fatter than the top one.

_If he doesn't want you there, he'll let you know._

"I think you're trying to prove something," Connor said, his voice even lower, almost a whisper. "Prove you don't need anyone. Prove you don't need—me."

He gulped out the last word, chewing on his lower lip.

In response, Jude simply blinked. Impassive. Swirling metal eyes and chapped lips.

"Would you say something if I kissed you?" Connor asked finally.

He leaned forward.

Connor remembered the lightning-quick kiss that Maddie had bestowed on him during their game of spin the bottle. A kiss that was over before it began. This, by contrast, was kissing in slow motion.

He leaned forward slowly and waited for Jude to react, to shove him away or – _please, please_ – say something.

_If he doesn't want you there, he'll let you know._

Jude didn't move. He didn't speak. He just sat there, statue-still, as Connor moved to kiss him.

Connor licked his lips at the last second – only a semi-conscious action – and so he pressed licked lips against Jude's dry ones. Jude's eyelids flickered half shut and that was the only indication at all that he might _want_ to be kissed.

Connor's first contact was tentative. It was a gentle press of lips against lips – his pursed and ready; Jude's slack and unresponsive. Then he tilted his head and realigned, fitting his two lips, ever so slightly parted, against Jude's fat bottom lip. And he sucked. Not hard. Just enough to moisten Jude's mouth and draw him into the kiss.

The sensation made Connor realize suddenly how much he wanted to keep kissing Jude.

The realization hit him hard somewhere beneath the sternum. It caused him to gasp slightly and pull away. Desire was chased just as suddenly by fear. He wondered if he'd made it all worse; if he'd somehow added to Jude's trauma; if he'd hammered a final nail in the coffin of their friendship.

Then he felt Jude reach for him. Thin arms, slender fingers. Reaching. And then Jude's hand was there against Connor's cheek. Connor was aware of the way his face flushed instantly in response. He felt the tremble in Jude's body, which travelled right to the tips of his uncertain fingers, and Connor was struck dumb.

In that moment, Connor felt that silence must be contagious. His ability to speak was gone. The whole world was reduced to touch and sight and—and—the feel of Jude's lips as they pressed against his.

They kissed with hands this time, feeling each out, drawing each other close, finding how their bodies fitted together. They kissed with closed lips and then, slowly, slowly, opened up, feeling the new thrill of kisses that used tongues—tongues that were useless for speaking, but perfect, perfect for this.

"Jude, honey…?"

When Connor heard the voice, it sounded alien—_wrong_, somehow. Didn't the speaker know that speech was unnecessary?

"Jude…?"

Belatedly, Connor realized it was Principal Ad—Lena's voice, calling Jude.

Jude reacted to the sound with a startled jump and the two of them sprang apart, breathing rapidly, dazed and kissed and still wanting more.

"It's getting late," they heard Lena call from outside the door. "I think it's time for Connor to go home."

Connor stood up, too quickly, unsteady on his feet. He felt clumsy, like he was crossing the room on wooden feet. When he reached for the door handle, his hands felt weird. Like they were too big or attached wrong. Like they might detach themselves from his wrists and scuttle back across the room to Jude where they belonged.

His hands tingled at the sense memory of cupping Jude's face. Then his mind flashed to where else his hands might touch Jude. He was so preoccupied that he almost didn't hear—

"Bye, Connor," said Jude quietly.

From where he stood at the door, Connor spun on the spot and looked at Jude.

It was funny to think that, just minutes earlier, Connor had looked at Jude's face and found it hard, cold, impenetrable. The old warmth was back now. He still looked faintly sad – worn down – but his expression was open. His eyes looked lighter now, and softer, too – no longer dark and metallic.

When Jude smiled at him, shyly, Connor smiled back, dizzy with relief.

Still feeling clumsy, he scrambled out of the door and down the stairs, past Princip—past Lena, and out into the cool night.

Like a diver surfacing, he gulped in big breaths of air and found that his lungs burned like he'd been holding his breath.

Later, later, he would have to think about tonight in concrete terms – he would have contemplate whether he now had a sometimes-mute boyfriend and what the hell that meant – but for now he was content to think about chapped lips, bottom lip fatter than the top one, and relive the moment when unkissed became kissed.


End file.
